frottage

We spoon, he and I, sleeping together naked as one. Some time in the middle of the night, he takes my hand and twines his fingers with mine, holding my hand against his heart. My chin rests on his shoulder, my other arm (the one you always wonder what to do with when you spoon) underneath his pillow, supporting our heads.

We sleep. We dream. We love. The night passes, and we are content, blissful, dreaming each our separate dreams.

Sometime, before dawn, I awaken, but only halfway. I catch myself doing something. My hips are thrusting, my groin is on fire, and I am slowly, slowly thrusting the very center of myself in, but not IN, that perfect cleft of flesh beneath the small of his back. His flesh grips me, and he, in his half-awake state, clenches himself slowly, creating a hot (oh, god, so hot) friction that stirs me, commands me, to do more, something else than the delicious precursor in which we are almost unconsciously participating.

I kiss his neck, and he thrusts himself back up against me, slowly, urgently, needing more contact, more touch, more of my body than simply our sex organs. My mind tells me that this is juveniledry humping, but my heart (among other things) belies my mind.

My lover wakes more fully, stretching, and I see his muscles lengthen, and contract. Lengthen, and contract. He is beautiful, my morning love, and smiling at me, eyes closed.

We could go on like this for hours, he and I, this pleasant, gentle, sexual, erotic stimulation keeping us on the very threshold of both consciousness and stupor. But my hands, more awake than my mind, grip him, play on his skin. I excite those nerve endings that only he and I know can be excited in him, until he can no longer take me doing this to him.

He turns over, and now we are face to face, and now our blue steel, hot and turgid, touch each other and it's like electricity as we slide them up and down against one another, staring into each other's half-lidded eyes. I kiss him, gently, thrusting a bit more now, actually grinding myself against himself. At the same time, we look down and see ... my god, what we see. It's beautiful, but nasty. A powerful sight, but one that makes us feel a little guilty. What we see, those two things rubbing against each other so pleasurably, is what we have been told is wrong, dirty, bad. That we are somehow not men for doing this together.

We know that's not true. We know that sight is in no way feminine or effeminate. It's raw. Powerful. Unquestionably male, overwhelmingly masculine. Looking down, our breath quickens and catches in our bodies, because now our minds, our imaginations, our secret, hidden desires and fantasies have entered into the fray. So long suppressed, these fantasies somehow are represented in this one vision, these two things that everyone says are never to touch each other. But they are touching, they are slowly sliding over each other, they are giving us a sweet, sweet sensation that is wholly and perfectly right. Natural. Human. Good.

It ends with a powerful rush, a sensation unlike any other release I've ever felt, our bodies alive, on fire, our mouths as locked together as the rest of us, and it goes on and on and on til finally I have to break the kiss and vocalize this heavenly sensation, something I rarely, if ever do.